


Apostate

by ByJoveWhatASpend



Series: Beresaad [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Bas-Saarebas, Betrayal, Caring Hannibal Lecter, FTM Will Graham, Gen, Hannibal Lecter Being an Asshole, Lies, Mages (Dragon Age), Protective Hannibal Lecter, Qunari, Qunari Culture and Customs, Saarebas, Secrets, Someone Help Will Graham, Someone Helps Will Graham, Trans Will Graham, you could easily read this without having seen hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 17:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15635160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByJoveWhatASpend/pseuds/ByJoveWhatASpend
Summary: In Ferelden they call them Apostates, because to denounce the Circle of Magi is to reject the Makers divine will, the idea that magic should only serve mankind.In Par Vollen they are known as Saarebas, or 'dangerous things'. They are seen as pitiful but still worthy of honour, because striving to control the self while under constant threat from within is a painful and unwinnable battle.Hannibal the Beresaad is here to enfold apostates into the Qun, whether or not that duty is worthy of respect.





	1. Chapter 1

 

In the south, Hannibal’s horns mark him as a man who can help himself, but an elf who passes him on his way out of Denerim stops to warn him of the Darkspawn still stalking the Brecilian forests. The sour, unwashed smell of the alienage clings to him, but the nervous smile he shares is compassionate. They both have pointed ears and that is all this man cares to see.  Hannibal takes his name in exchange for a few coppers, along with a promise to bring him news of a small town out west.

 

The elf called Legolamb is not the last to warn him of danger, and as he walks through Fereldan he finds the ground less stable beneath his feet than he had expected.

 

An innkeeper a day west from the city, once warm and welcoming as a stew left to bubble, tells him about being chased from her home by darkspawn only to find herself under the personal guard of the now-dead King Cailan. “He was a kind man,” she says wistfully, thin and brittle looking fingers trailing her cheek, the shadow of a firmer touch. “A funny one, too. Not the sort you’d expect to be King, I suppose. Like any man you might meet on the street.”

 

“Did he seem attainable?”

 

She giggles, and the pinking of her cheeks bring the inn back to life. “Well, not by _me_ of course. They say the Queen is an _unrivaled_ beauty, you know! "

 

“So they say.” Hannibal agrees but it soon has her giggling and plying him with free spirits until the fog at the corner of his vision softens her into the woman he remembers. She had only returned to her little tavern in the last few months and he hopes she will be more herself the next time he passes through.

 

Her taste in spirits carries him through several more towns and many miles of walking. The Fereldan water is hardly fit for cattle at the best of times but their preference for clean, sanitized ale is enough to stave of dehydration without snow to boil. He thinks longingly of Orlesian wine but no village he passes through seems to have anything more than the basics to sell.

 

There is black spot of charred land a weeks walk into South Reach. It once held a sprawling family of herders and some of the most expensive vegetables Hannibal had ever come across, and he is miffed by its loss. He steps lightly around the new green growth rising up from the charred earth and picks from the abandoned gardens until the resentment in his chest feels sated. He makes a simple cinnamon soup at what is left of their hearth, beneath a roof half fallen in, and sleeps near the warm charcoal fire that needs no tending.

 

He is not far from the remote home of a family he had long ago befriended, and when he knocks on their door they received him with excited cries and tight embraces. Hannibal trades the bag of pilfered turnips for the youngest child of the family, barely old enough to walk but fascinated, as children usually are, with his horns. He bows his head to let the tiny fingers wrap around the smooth curve of the front-facing rostral horn, though he must watch his step to keep hiss larger pair from scraping the low wooden beams.

 

“What is this ones name?” he asks as he feels the light buzzing warmth of gentle, unformed magic move through its fingers and dance across his face.

 

“Adelaide!” the girl clinging to his leg is Hild and she has already slid down to sit on his foot, arms wrapped tightly around his knee. Her brother Oskar is shyer, not remembering him fully, having been only three years old when last Hannibal had come to call. Hannibal gives him an encouraging smile and soon is carrying all three children towards the dinner table, making a show of how little the weight affects him as the older two shout and giggle encouragement.

 

The turnip stew he is given later in the afternoon has improved greatly and he tells the chef as much. When the children sleep Hannibal goes outside with their mother. She whispers to him about the loss of her husband, not to Darkspawn but to desperate refugees who attempted to break into their home for supplies. “He lit up the trees like a thunderstorm.” she says. “One after the other, connected by light. Killed the lot of them dead in only a few seconds. I couldn’t believe it.”  
  
“An apostate.” Hannibal's voice is pitched too low for the children to hear, though he’s sure they must know by now. Her hand disappears into his. If she were any less prideful she would let her tears fall but they still make her eyes shine beneath the twin moons. “He never told you?”

 

 _“No!”_ her mouth stretches in ugly pain. “If I’d known -if I’d any _idea_ I’d’ve called the templars straight away!”

 

“Did he attack you?” Hannibal knew he hadn’t. Dwyn was a devoted husband with a demons at his back, not in his heart.

 

“Didn’t give him the chance. He’s halfway to Tevinter by now, I shouldn’t figure.” she sniffed her disgust, taking her hand back to hug her stomach. He suspects she might have birth Adelaide all on her own. He isn’t certain whether Hild could’ve helped at all, or brought Oskar and a newborn to town on her own had she not survived.  “Havin’ you here’s the safest I’ve felt in months. I keep thinkin _‘What if he comes back?’_ We’re like cattle, sittin’ pretty in our pasture, waiting for the butcher to gather up his knife.”

 

“The Qunari call mages _Saarebas_ .” he tells her, and dull green eyes sharpen in the darkness. “We find them early and they are put to use. _Asit tal-eb._ Things are as they are meant to be. The _saarebas_ are guarded by people with only that goal in mind and taught only enough to put their magic to use.”

 

“No putting them up in gilded towers for you oxmen, huh?” She grins ruefully, twisting the worn sackcloth of her dress. She is a devoted follower of Andraste, believes in the Maker and sings the Chant of Light whenever she has air to breath. They tell their followers that ‘ _magic should only  serve man_ ’ but the Chantry’s choice to lock their mages up in what they call schools must grate on her.

 

“They are taken care of.” Hannibal leaves it for her interpretation and retires to her home, laying amongst her children by the fire on bear-skin covered floors. The earthy buzz coming off each of their skin keeps him awake long after their mother herself has lain down to sleep.

 

Hannibal waits and listens, petting his finger between Oskar’s furrowed brow. He whispers a quiet assurance for peace and gentle spirits during their nightly journey through the Fade. It is impossible for him to know if it works, but with an arm laid across all three like a blanket he will know if they thrash or tremble in the night.

 

He stays with them for several days, cooking most of their meals with food he brings in from the closest market. He uses his own spice collection liberally and relieves the children’s mother from many of her duties. The pinched look around her mouth softens after she has had time to rest and soon she is weaving flowers into Hild’s hair, playing counting games with Oskar and kissing every one of Adelaide’s fingers and toes as though they are all equally precious to her.

 

Another fortnite and he has secured a horse and a cart for their things. He escorts them all to Denerim and feels the last brush of their fingers as they board a vessel North. They are on their way to Afsaana, where they will ‘ _see what they can make of things’_ , but he knows she will not enjoy it there. He has left her with a list of contacts who will help her if need be, but he is certain she will make her own way to Par Vollen within the year.

 

He waits until the ship is too far away to see him before he moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.medievalcookery.com/recipes/cinnamon.html a recipe for cinnamon soup. Hannibal isnt going to starve just because he's backpacking after all.


	2. Chapter 2

 

He sells the cart but keeps the horse and leaves Denerim for the second time this year, but now with better wine. 

 

There is a town outside of Lothering with a woman who sells tomatoes so flavourful and plump that they had effectively ruined the experience of all others Hannibal had eaten before  _ and  _ since. He thinks only of the memory of them, the satisfying burst of the flesh under his teeth as he pushes his horse across well worn roads, reaching the town in only a few days. 

 

The beasts wide neck is cool and damp with sweat from the ride, but she is in good spirits as he leads her to the inn, doing a cheerful dance with her hooves as he wipes her down. He is certain to check that the feed the stable provides is of acceptable quality, but still mixes a scoop of dried peas in with the simple grains, which she seemed to approve of. She might have had a more comfortable journey if she had ever carried someone of his size before, but her attitude over the whole thing was admirable.

 

Hannibal could have found the tomato stall in the towns small market with his eyes closed. The purveyor is half hidden on a low stool but the sharp scent of tomato leaves is as strong on her skin as the great red pile of fruit gleaming merrily in the sun. She does not see him as he walks close, her back bowed over a roughly bound book with light pink stains blurring the lettering. Without him having to speak her face creases with pleasure, seemingly recognizing him the moment his shadow falls across her, protecting her from the midday sun.

 

“You made it through the Blight!” her voice is loud and unpleasant but the familiar unabashed crowing brings a smile to Hannibals face.

 

“You as well. At the very least I thought you may have fled north, to safer pastures.” 

 

“The Maker saw fit to protect us.” she puffs up with pride as though protecting her town had been something she, personally, had earned. Hannibal can't really disprove the idea. She stands, wiping her fingers off in her book before setting it aside. “You too, apparently-- I kept you in my prayers, you know.”

 

“Did you really?” He ghosts his fingers over the tomatoes, already planning meals for the next week. “I’m honoured that you would think of me in a time when things were surely their darkest for you.”

 

“Don’t get too worked up about it, I knew if anyone could survive  rampaging monsters it’d be you. They probably took one look at you and thought you were kin, besides.” 

 

“To my knowledge the darkspawn see qunari the same as humans or elves. Their swords would have worked on me as well as anyone else, had I been nearby.” He has set aside ten tomatoes by now, roundest and cleanest ones in the pile, as well as one that just caught the sun in a particularly pleasant way. “As it happened, I was in Orlais during most of the Blight and did little there but worry for my friends Ferelden.” 

 

“Oh _ Or-laaais _ !” she puts a hand to her chest and pretends to swoon. “You did nothing but  _ worry _ , along with drinking a trough full of fancy wine and cheese, I'm sure!”

 

It is technically true but he smiles like it is not. “Between dips in heated baths and getting my horns gilded, no doubt.”

 

“I’d pay good money to see you fit in some high born ladies washtub.” 

 

“Provide me an Orlesian washtub in Fereldan and I would give you the show for free.”

 

She is doubled over with laughter and he smiles as he counts out the few coppers he owes her. The market is filling up in the noonday warmth and seems to be busier than last time he was here. When prompted she tells him that many families had passed through during the Blight and more few had stayed, but it was only lately that the town had begun to expand. “They get back to their villages, find that nothing is left for them and turn right back around again. Most of them strapped their lives to their horses backs when they left so it was only a matter of settin’ up house. Wee all pitch in to speed the process, for the most part. The inn turned a healthy profit this year, of course.”

 

“Of course.” Maris never needed much prompting to speak and the chatter was oddly comforting after a few years away from her.

 

“Not that she puts anything back into the community if she can help it. Sittin’ pretty on a golden throne I suspect, considering the way she been keepin off her feet.”

 

Hannibal, who knows from experience that she is about to turn the discussion somewhere he would rather not go, is quick to wrap up his things and say his goodbyes. As he gathers his bag back over his shoulder there is a shout behind him.

 

_ “Hey oxman!” _

 

The voices are young and unfamiliar, and when he turns he is struck across the face. Its sudden and sharp, narrowly missing his eye. Its unexpected enough that he is nearly sent off balance, staggering two steps back until his shoulder hits the signage. The stall shakes and nearly gives way to his weight before he can catch himself full and the dull thuds of a dozen tomatoes hitting the floor are more painful than the rock itself had been. 

 

There is blood on his face but he spots his assailants before they have the chance to hide. They are older children, hugging the side of a nearby shack. They look pleased and terrified in equal measure, but they are not holding any more rocks. He would have been happy enough to let them run away to gloat amongst themselves for their courage but Maria Caladri has already rounded her stall to put herself bodily between the boys and him. 

 

She shouts threats at them, promising to tell their mother, the church, the maker himself, and barring that to beat some good sense into them herself. The boys ducked around the corner the moment she began her tirade but from the way she screeches Hannibal is sure they heard every word, along with anyone else in the valley. There are more than a few curious looks turned his way (and a few more fearful ones) by the time she is done but he remains where he is, leaning back against her shaken cart.

 

“Are you okay?” She grabs at his face and he leans down to let her see before she gets any ideas to start yanking at his horns. “Maker,  they got you good, how's your eye?”

 

“I’ll be fine, Maria.” He gives her a clean cloth from his vest pocket. She dabs it across the wound fimly to remove any dirt that may have mixed with the blood, using her free hand to ( _ of course _ ) grab him by the horn and turn his face into better light. He watches her look at him, the concern on her face interesting and unexpected. “Have I been maimed?”

 

“It’s pretty bad.” he doesn’t think that's true  but she does seems just a little pale. “Come on, we can get you patched up.”

 

He doesn’t know what she expects to do, but he lets her lead him by the hand away from the market, apparently unconcerned about theft at her stall. He holds his handkerchief against his face as he walks, and prodding lightly at the cut through the thin silk which is quickly growing sodden. The cut is surprisingly deep and he suspects that what he’s touching at the bottom is actually bone. The hand Maria has wrapped around the first two of the fingers on his left is warm and clammy.

 

The building she brings him to is less a home and more a shack with a large lean-to attached to it. The smells of a blacksmithy are unmistakable, strong and unpleasantly noxious, sticking to the back of Hannibal's throat and somehow stinging the cut worse than the silk did. The smithy has their strong back turned to them and even in the cool of the south their considerable musculature is gleaming with sweat. Hannibal admires the exposed human skin as Maria leaves him, walking around to catch their attention.

 

The smithy stops and it is Margot, who Hannibal has only met once before. She was the frail daughter of the butcher when last Hannibal had come through, but she seems to have blossomed in his time away, up and outwards. Her once pale skin has darkened with sun and grime and her thin braids shorn off. He wouldn't have recognized her if not for the way her eyes lit up and the uniquely crooked way she smiles. “Its you!” 

 

“Margot.” He nods his head to her, keeping the cloth in place. “You are looking well.”

 

She raises her chin higher, turning to Maria as if to confirm that the older woman had heard it too, but in seeing her neighbors stricken expression she wipes the pride from her face. “What do you two need?” she asks, efficiently no nonsense in a way Hannibal cannot help but approve of. “I assume you don't need a weapon after the fact, and I’m pretty sure that Qunari skin isn't  _ actually  _ made of bronze, so if you need him patched up..”

 

“You have that poultice right? For the embers?”

 

Margot's eyebrows raise minisculely. “The strong stuff?” she asks and Hannibal can hear caution in her voice.

 

Maria is oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, nodding her head enthusiastically. “That, yeah! Give us a bit of it and it’ll count for that favour you owe me.”

 

The young blacksmith (apprentice? She seems young still, even if she is so much larger than she had been) stares into the middle distance for a moment, clearly weighing the decision heavily against some unseen force, but before it can be conspicuous enough for Maria to pick up on she nods her head. “Sure, fine, yeah.” 

 

She pulls off her gloves, tucking them into the front pocket of her leather apron and picks out a plain carved wooden box from her crowded shelf.

 

When she opens it to show a great deal of mashed green and black mud he keeps his face stoic, lips parted to breath through his mouth rather than smell it. Margot is quick with the preparation, bringing out a bit of cheesecloth from the shack and setting a pot within her still-burning fire to let the water warm. Margot works silently and quickly as she directs him into a chair, carefully wiping blood from his cheek with a mostly-clean rag of her own. Her fingers are damp but cooler than the air and he closes his eyes so she will not feel intimidated by his gaze. 

 

“How is your family, Margot?” She is pressing the wet cheesecloth over the wound and he knows he will have to wash it all clean when he returns to the inn. Her fingers pause against his skin for a moment, brief but unmissable.

 

“They ran off during the Blight!” Maria scoffs from just in front of him, likely leaning over Margot’s shoulder. “Can you believe that? A whole village full of refugees and they just run off in the night, don't open their doors, leave everyone hanging!”

 

“They left you behind?” 

 

“I was asleep in the shop that night.” she says it flat as any Tranquil might have, a simple fact with no emotional weight to it. Seperate from her. “I guess they left me behind. I would’ve been a burden on the road.”

 

“Burden nothin!” Maria said it with such vehemence that Hannibal could almost miss the wet and sticky sound of Margot's fingers scooping poultice from the container. “Soon as she realized what had happened she opened their shop and gave all the meat away to the customers for free! Didn’t want the meat spoiling while the people starved, she said, bless her--bless  _ your  _ soul, I mean!”   
  
“I gave the pigs to the mayor.” Margot explains, voice tight with discomfort as her fingers begin spreading the poultice over the cloth. It tingles and he thinks for a moment that it is the riverclay, fireplace soot and random mash of fragrant flowers that humans usually call  _ ‘poultices’  _ dirtying his wound, but once it begins to seep through and enter his blood he is able to recognize the muted hummy of earthy magic. “He gave the butcher shop to someone that had half an idea of what to do with it. I’ve got no head for business, really.”

 

“You look happier now.” Hannibal concentrates on the steady spread of warmth and magic as it moves through his face, knitting the flesh closed and eating away at the edges of whatever bruise might have considered forming. Its soothing in a way, knowing that this unimportant cut would not fester and scar, but tiring as well for its implications. He opens one eye when she wipes the excess off on the edge of the container, too fruegal to waste it. Another cheesecloth covers the poultice to keep bugs out of it but he can tell from the tightening in his skin that it will be entirely healed within the hour. Hannibal takes her hand in his, lightly, running his thumb across the thick calluses. There is not even a hint of magic in her flesh. “Thank you for taking your time to help me.”

 

She accepts his thanks gravely and rushes them out as soon as she is able to. Hannibal does not doubt that her poultice will soon be hidden away somewhere new the next time he checks in on her. When they are in the market again Hannibal helps Maria to set her stall back to rights and inquires as to the price of the poultice that had been used “ _ so that I may pay her back _ .”

 

Maria flaps her hands as she fixes herself back on her stool, leaning an elbow on her table. “Oh don’t you worry about that, she owed me one. It's not  _ expensive  _ anyways, it's just a pain to get hold of and I know she keeps some for burns. She’s such a deft hand at the anvil these days, though, I know she hardly uses it none.”

 

“Are the ingredients not in season?”

 

“No no, just that the elf what makes it hardly ever comes to town.” she rolls her eyes heavenward and the annoyance in her face is clear. She is a woman with a strict schedule of farming, selling and child rearing. She doesnt have the luxery to go ‘ _ tromping about on adventures _ ’ as she would like to say whenever he has invited her any further from town than the bar. “People buy it all up before he even reaches market half the time. I’ve only managed to get  _ one  _ jar of it off him this whole year and I saw Margot talking to him just last week so I knew  _ she  _ had plenty.”

 

He gets more information out of her without having to ask much. A Dalish elf lives alone somewhere south of town. They have a large mabari dog and sell many different healing poultices. They showed up with the rest of the refugees during the Blight. It's more than enough and he says his goodbyes for a second time, promising to cook for her family sometime in the coming week.

 

Hannibal returns to his room at the inn and washes the dried blood from of his face and clothing with the ‘ _ clean enough _ ’ jug of water left by the wash basin. He peels the sticky clump of cloth and mud from his cheek  _ (which, now that he allows himself to pay attention to it, smells more like Felandaris and Spindleweed than the usual human folk remedies _ ) and sets it aside.  From his pack comes a flat mirror, a well polished thing of twisted and etched bronze. He must find the light of the bedside candle to catch his reflection just right, but when he does he can get his first look at the injury.

 

The cut, he is not surprised to find, is entirely gone.


	3. Chapter 3

  


He doesn’t need to ask conspicuous questions or lurk around corners to find the the elf. Not long after sunrise, the dew wetting his boots and the early risen birds cheerfully singing above his head, he finds thing deer trail between the trees, just a stone's throw from the creek at the south of the village. It is something of an educated guess to follow it, and an inconvenience when he hardly can fit between the bushes and tree trunks, but he is rewarded for his efforts after only half of an hours walk when he comes across the unmistakable signs of _dog_.

 

He does not deviate from the path (though he does step more carefully) as the sun climbs slowly off of the lip of the earth. His feet on the wet leaves are as silent as his breathe. The sounds of the creek wax and wane as its path curls through the forest, eventually cutting sharply in front of him. The wet earth here shows the light imprints of small boots and numerous deep paw prints, fresh and old alike. Hannibal stops here, kneeling in a plush tuft of weeds as he concentrates on the forest around him, listening beyond the immediate racket of birds, insects and water.

 

It takes a moment to pick it up, still at some distance, but there is barking coming from further east, carried to him along with the fresh scent of live smoke.

 

Just over an hour outside the village but well away from any road, days from any population center large enough for templars to regularly patrol. A cleverer place to hide than many other mages Hannibal had found, and a life more worth living than was often left to their kind.

 

He keeps his steps silent as he approaches but does not bend or flit between the trees. The dogs (for he can hear that there are at least two of them) do not seem to notice him, and if not for their chatter he may well have passed the house close enough to touch without ever having seen it. It is old, on the verge of being reclaimed by the forest. It’s wood is dark with age and rain, green with climbing, parasitic vines and mosses using it it to steal what sunlight they can from its roof. It was certainly here before the elf came.

 

Hannibal circles it at a distance, looking for the entrance, and sees that parts of it have collapsed in on themselves, the repairs done with sticks and reeds, woven together like baskets. Much of the hut has been patched up with mud, but some parts still have the bones of the building exposed.

 

There is movement, he thinks, between the gaps, and he stills to observe it, trying to glean what he can in the last few moment before he will announce himself. The barking comes from inside, along with rapid, excited movement. Eight paws clicking on stone floors and things being bumped into as the dogs tumble together. It is unlikely anyone could sleep through so much noise.

 

There is the crack of step to his right and Hannibal turns quickly, meeting the suspicious glare of a large and all too wise mabari hound. Its wide brindle shoulders nearly blend into the underbrush, but the silent snarl of its teeth stand out starkly even in the low light.

 

“So there are three dogs, I see.” Hannibal speaks quietly, remaining nonthreatening. The southern mabari are well known for their intelligence, rather than a peaceful nature.

 

“Seven.”

 

Hannibal moves slower this time, turning his back on the dog. He sees the arrow pointed at him before he sees the man. The bow is well-carved bone or horn, so far as he can tell, and curved in a fashion he has not seen before. The face of the elf pulling it tight holds no fear as he aims the wickedly curved steel head towards Hannibal's center mass.

 

They both know that he should not move, so he does not raise his hands to placate, nor move them towards the dagger at his hip. The elf looks neither young nor old, but tired and possibly in ill health, judging from the hollows beneath his eyes. His face is not unpleasant, nor is it particularly welcoming. It is covered in dark, somewhat patchy scruff, better tended than his hair.

 

“I had heard that you were Dalish,” Hannibal says after several tense moments of sizing one another up. He smiles just slightly though the elf does not return it. “I have met two Dalish clans in my travels, but I begin to suspect that holding strangers at arrow point is a universal greeting for them.”

 

“It crosses cultures, traditions and distance.” the elf agrees, but the stiff tension in him proves itself brittle as it suddenly crumbles, his gaze twitching away to watch the bushes, the sky, anything but Hannibal. His expression twists unpleasantly, grinding his teeth as he morphs between smile and snarl. “What-- _why_ did you _come_ here?”

 

Hannibal, for his part, keeps his expression and body language peaceful. “I heard of a Dalish elf living alone in the woods somewhere south of town. I had little else to do today, and so decided to come and introduce myself.”

 

“ _Ah_ .” says the elf, and while his tone is neutral his face speaks of disbelief. The bow lowers to point at Hannibal's feet, though the sinew string hardly slackens. “That's- that's _it_ _?_ Just a ‘hello’?”

 

“And perhaps a cup of tea as well, if it wouldn’t put you out.” Hannibal lets his smile widen and the stranger seems to try to reflect it. It sits badly on his square face, ill-fitting and ill-humoured.

 

“Oh sure, a strange _qunari_ just walked over an hour on a whim to have tea with me.” he snaps, though his shoulders are drawing in. Anxious, unfriendly, but no longer trying to threaten. He feels threatened instead, a cornered animal making himself small.

 

“I may have hoped that you and I might have that strangeness in common.” It’s carefully spoken, quiet as though someone might be able to hear the confession and judge him for it. The elf’s eyes dart over him, desperately seeking out a sign that Hannibal means him harm, but the wall between them has lowered for now. The strange elf living in isolation believes him, and if Hannibal is correct, seven dogs are not enough to replace real connections. “I am of the Beresaad, but you can call my Hannibal if you like.”

 

The string goes slack. The arrow stays between his fingers while the bow is dropped gently into the grass. He brushes a hand across his forehead, the simple branches that climb into his hairline, like he is wiping away sweat. The design is not particularly aesthetically pleasing, the deep red clashing badly with his skin tone, and faded as though the elf is much older than he appears. “I can call you it, you said. Is it your name?”

 

“In a sense. We are not given names under the Qun.”

 

“So you picked it yourself.” There is a more wry set to his mouth now as his free hand scratches through thick, dark stubble. It is the first time he can recall ever having met an elf with facial hair, beyond a fine downy sparsity that only existed in bright sunlight. “Hannibal. Baal was a Chasind god, right? And Hanni that was… forgiveness? Mercy of Baal?”

 

Hannibal can not quite hide his surprise. “Could I not have simply liked the sound of it?” he says, more a question than a defense.

 

“You could’ve.” the man states it plainly but it’s plain in his tone that he knows the truth. “You can call me Will. And I guess we can have that tea. Assuming you brought it with you.”  
  
Hannibal inclines his head and Will gives a sharp whistle. The mabari hound instantly relaxes, running to his master for praise which Will happily kneels to provide. “His training speaks to your attentiveness.” He says, staying where he is and admiring the differences in master and hound. The dog almost certainly weighs far more than than the elf, but Will is hardly frail beneath his simple tunic and leathers. “Did he come to you as a pup?”

 

“Nope. Found him running loose just ahead of the Darkspawn army.” Will does not look at him as he stands and moves away. The mabari follows and Hannibal takes up the rear.

 

There is a carved wooden chair sitting around the other side of the hut. Low slung and smooth, simple and utilitarian. Will pauses beside it long enough for Hannibal to reach him, nods curtly before disappearing into his hut. Hannibal takes the hint and lowers himself to sit and and wait, under the watchful, curious eyes of Will’s newly adopted warhound.

 

The chair, clearly made for Will, is not terribly tight or uncomfortable so long as Hannibal allows himself to lean back and stretch out his legs, like it’s creator must have done many times before. The smooth incline  is relaxing and sets his eyes into the forests canopy, the shimmery way the early morning sunlight glistens between the bobbing leaves. Small animals run along the branches high above. Content and largely safe from human eyes. Hannibal can picture spending many hours and days in this chair, especially when the mabari takes what Hannibal can assume to be his customary spot beside him, his head just under Hannibal's hand.

 

By the time Will returns to them, carrying with him a storm tide of excitable mutts, the mabari under his fingers is flat to the ground, snoring and blissful. In deference to animals happiness Hannibal stays where he is, scratching his claws through the bristly hair in soothing rhythm.

 

“You’ll make a friend for life if you keep on like that.” Will warns, setting a thinner chair in the dirt across the empty fire pit. A pot of simmering water dangles from a hook in his hand. “Of nothing else you’ll end up with dirt under your nails.”

 

Hannibal makes a show of inspecting his thick, black claws, before quickly returning them to the warm fur at the dogs ruff. “They’ve had worse things under them.” he says, watching Will set out mismatched cups. Will smiles sardonically, clearly disbelieving it. “So what is my new friends name?”  
  
“Winston.”

 

“Winston and Will. It suits you both.”

 

There is a curve to the elf's face that suggests that he does not want to be flattered by this, but can’t quite help himself.  “So,” he says, setting the mugs of hot water in grass near Hannibals boot with too much force. “Tea. What do you have?”

 

“Just what I have on hand during my travels, nothing special.” Hannibal stays reclined as he reaches into a pouch at his belt, unconcerned that Will now towers over him. Will, it seemed, was hyper-conscious of the fact, fidgeting and shifting backwards to make the angle between them less extreme, unable to look him in the eye. “An autumnal rose, bought in Orlais. The flavour is fruity and the scent almost overwhelming to the refined pallet. A pinch goes a long way with this tea, though sadly I will soon run out.”

 

The pouch he brings out is less than a quarter full now, but he measures out a careful assortment of dry leaves between his nails, dropping a pinch into each cup. The colourful bits of raspberry swirl and bob under their own weight as the hot water plumps them up.

 

“It sounds pretty special to me.” Will has backed all the way into his own chair now, sitting heavily and hunching in on himself. The choice of chairs had clearly been chosen for their sturdiness rather than any sort of power play, and the courtesy of the gesture is a pleasant surprise. He sniffs the air as the teas scent ripens, and Hannibal moves gracefully to his feet, holding out the thicker of the two cups. Will is careful not to touch his fingers as he accepts it, lifting it to his nose as Hannibal reclines once more. “This doesn’t smell much like roses, either.”

 

“Are there many roses in the wilds of the south?”

 

“I’ve smelled them before. Not recently, but I wouldn’t forget it.”

 

“Nor would I. Scent is one of our most reliable senses. In a dream the only scents lie with strong memories. In our waking hours scent can always be trusted, even when our eyes deceive.”

 

“So my nose is correct in saying this _isn’t_ roses.”

 

“Yes. It is named ‘ _automne rose_ ’ for its complexion. The tea itself comes from a red bush by way of Tevinter, carried southwards at great expense. The scent, flavour and colour is largely carried in the dried raspberries left adrift just below the surface.” Hannibal lifts his own cup to his mouth, taking a sip to show that it is not obviously poisonous. The texture of this tea is grittier than others but he enjoys the delicacy of the flavour, power of the scent and chaos of the leftover leaves.   
  
Hannibal has taken his third sip before Will sees fit to try it himself. At one moment he seems to bask in the warmth upon his palette and the next he seems to consider whether it would be impolite to spit. In the end he gnashes his teeth and tilts the cup to catch the light, as though expecting to find something terrible inside. “I don't know much about Tevinter,” he says, and Hannibal hides a smile with his next sip. “But I’m willing to bet the Orlesians teapots have a built-in strainer.”

 

“ I have come to find that the texture of the leaves heightens the pleasure of their flavour. I would say that the Orlesians are missing out on half of the experience in their own herbal blends.” He runs his tongue along his teeth after the next taste, making certain no grit was left between them. “More than fifty years they have been drinking this, but it took  a foreigner to their lands to truly understand what they had.”

 

Will laughs outright at that, a smile twisting his face in an unnatural sort of way, as though he has not experienced the sensation in years. He covers it with his hand, but it is too wide to keep hidden, and Hannibal’s mouth can not help but twist upwards as well.

 

“I take it you do not agree?”

 

“You’ve gone a step beyond accepting hardship at that point.” Will says when he has some control over himself again, though his voice is lighter. It had never been deep but it floats better now upon the wind, settling nicely in Hannibal's ears. His eyes, blue and long-lashed, pierce Hannibal better than any arrow might hope to. “You’re no longer a traveler, packing light and living rough, you are.. A nomadic God. You’ve invented for yourself a world in which imperfect things are made perfect just by your having experienced or influenced them. Literally, those tea leaves are elevated just by the grace of having touched your tongue.”

 

He feels strangely conspicuous now in his this elf’s humble cottage, a stranger that does not belong. He has lived the last ten years in the south with every eye watching him, but he can recall only once in his life feeling  so exposed. “You see me so well.” He admits, and the accepting of the fact is surprisingly more freeing than shameful. “How do you feel about what you see?”

 

Will smiles rakishly, meeting his eyes, blue to red. “You’re completely absurd.” he laughs. “It’s fantastic.”

 

Just like that, Hannibal is accepted. His heart bounces an odd rhythm in his chest, and Will has just laughed himself silly at Hannibals expense, but suddenly the elf seems to see them as equals. “Then I suppose i will not take offense at your fun.”

 

“Take offense if you're offended. Whatever’s honest. You’re my guest, after all.”

 

It is oddly pleasant to be seen, even if it means that Will is not a man to be easily fooled. “

 

The two of them drink and chew their tea respectively in companionable silence. Will peers past his cup and the corner of his eye to watch Hannibal, a secret smile on his lips. Hannibal is shamelessly overt in his attention, now, trying to see Will the way he himself has been seen.

 

Will sits back, and there is an air of preening in the tilt of his crooked mouth, his flat white teeth. “Baal is a god of healing, right?”  
  
“Its one of his purported talents, yes. The Chasind gods are not quite so set in their ways as the Dalish ones.” it is a hint, the breath of insinuation, heralding the questions Hannibal wants to ask. Wills eyes meet his own briefly in acknowledgment. “But yes, healing, nourishment, and cleanliness. It is all centered around the home. Baal is a nurturing God. One of comfort and stability.”

 

“Not according the Chantry, last I heard it.” a sharp dismissal. Will knows better.

 

“The name Hannibal existed long before the Andrastian’s chose to defame the Chasind gods and mangle the pronunciation.”

 

“ _Beelzebub,_ isn't it?” Will runs his thumb around the rim of his cup, feeling out the intricate grooves in a soothing pattern. The small glistening bead of dried fruit clings to his skin, a spot of red he thoughtlessly licks away. “Lord of Flies.”

 

“Ba‘al Zebul.” Hannibal corrects, imagining the bloom of flavour on Wills tongue “God of the Home.”

 

“It seems like an unlucky name.”

 

“Lucky for me, they are only stories. I am free to pick and choose the parts I like. Especially when so few know the Chasind stories in these times.”

 

“Only the Chasind themselves.”

 

“And people like us.”

 

Will looks at him more sharply, looking him over once more. Hannibal doubts there is anything readily apparent that Will did not see as soon as he arrived. “A god of comfort, security and homes.” he muses, falsely casual. “And here you are, a _Beresaad_ , a missionary of the Qun, on the opposite end of the world from your home. There’s gotta be a story behind that.”

 

“Sometimes we wear the name of the person we want to be, rather than the man that we are. I do what I can here, and return to my home country whenever I am given the opportunity to do so.” Hannibal lifts his cup to his lips to find it empty. Despite this, he is parched.

 

“The name ‘Will’ is not one I would attribute to the Dalish.” he finally says, overly blunt but if Will can read so much in his tea leaves then he knows what Hannibal really wants to ask. “It makes me think of ‘Ser William’, a human I had the misfortune to meet near Sahrnia.”

 

“I’m surprised they’d let a Qunari missionary that close to the winter palace.” Will sips at his own cup. ‘It’s short for _Willow_ , for what it’s worth. Pretty typical name, among my people, at least in intent. Slender, graceful, ever-reaching--”

 

“Listless, weeping, and occasionally kept in Alienages.” Hannibal inclines his head. “It suits you terribly.”

 

Will does not respond to that, drinking down the rest of this tea, less careful of the leaves this time. He ground them between his teeth, considering, before he turned to the side and spat them on the round.

 

“I think tea time is over.” he says, standing abruptly. It takes Hannibal longer to stand, and by the time he does it Winston is awake as well, wagging his tail excitedly.

 

“Of course.” Hannibal is gracious, smiling down at Will and his odd facial hair, his unusual tattoos. “I am glad to have spoken with you, Will. If you are to visit town any time soon, I am staying at the in there. I’d like to have tea with  you again.”

 

Hannibal holds out his hand to shake, and overtly human gesture. Will flinches oddly, he has been physically pulled back by a string, looking at his own thin boots as he takes another step away. “I’ll think about it.” he says, in a tone that is closer to ‘ _don't hold your breath_ ’.

 

They exchange nods instead and Hannibal heads back the way he came. Winston follows him around the hut, foraging the trail happily. When they are nearly back to the river a sharp whistle comes from behind. Winston turns around, stopping in front of Hannibal for one last pet and a promise to return soon, before dashing home.

 

Hannibal returns to town, oddly buoyed, his steps light and easy and his head clear. Rarely has he felt such interest in another person. Will has thoroughly won their first meeting, in a contest he ought not to have even known he was playing. Will knew. Will knew more about Hannibal than he would have ever willingly offered. What else would he see in him, if given more time?

 

He walked tall through the sleepy marketplace, aware, as he always was, of the eyes following his every move. Watching, but not seeing. Hannibal would visit Will again soon.

 

He found himself very much anticipating the idea of being seen.

 


	4. Chapter 4

As much as he would like to sit and reflect on his morning with Will, Hannibal has plenty else in the unnamed but growing village to distract himself with. He strolls through the curved and ill-defined roads, seeing what he sees and smiling gently at anyone he makes eye contact with. There are those that pull away in fright, but also people who recognize him and greet him with excitement. He stays to talk to these people as long as they will have him, in full view of their neighbors’ suspicious glances. It is good to be welcomed, and there is little else that southern humans can do better than hospitality. 

When the day begins to give itself over to twilight Hannibal has counted out 63 structures in the village. It’s an impressive rise from the thirty or so it had previously been, and does not include what must surely be at least a dozen or so set further away from the busier marketplace, hidden amongst the tree. Possibly even new farmsteads. He sets himself up at the bar, easily seen but nearest the owner to discourage hecklers. 

Tiffany, the innkeeper, smiles prettily at him and stays close to him like the overprotective mother mabari that most ‘Good Ferelden Women’ see themselves as. She tells him that one of the new residents had been a self appointed teacher in whatever town they had originally come from. She believes that the construction on a new schoolhouse will be finished within the month, but that the teacher would quickly run themselves ragged trying to teach ‘more than fifty-head of brats’. 

When the patrons have mostly moved on to their homes, and Tiffany is beginning to close up shop, Hannibal secures her permission to use the kitchen. He is there until the early hours of the morning, and greets her rumpled sleepy self with a fresh blackberry compote and milky tea from her own stores. She is warm and friendly, chasing her breakfast with a mug of ale to ‘get her head on straight’. 

In lands with cleaner water and better sanitation practices the rampant alcoholism in the south was viewed as crass, but not everyone could afford mage-cleansed water and taps integrated with dwarven runes. He had learned, during one of his earliest missions, that taking a fereldan entirely off of alcohol while he escorted them north could kill them faster than the bandits. 

He leaves her two of his freshly made meal bars and puts a good portion of them in his pack as he walks the town again. The smell of honey, fruit and oats surrounds him as the food warms his hip, and by midday he has given them all out, piece by piece, and secured many new friendships. By the next day people are coming up to him to introduce themselves, shaking hands and trading gossip. He receives an apology from the mother of the boys who had thrown rocks at him, as well as a thick, sweet, carrot bread she had made herself upon hearing that he favoured ‘fancy foods’. 

He spends the night up, reworking her bread into many small cakes which he carefully wraps and stores away someplace safe. With the sun rising, he sits on his bed in the undersized rented room, smelling of softened apples and oats and ale and sweat and humans and horse, in a room that smelled of a hundred previous unwashed humans, and finds that he has little interest in sleeping just yet. 

Without shame or prior planning, he walks once more into the forests to the south of town, his footsteps light and his heart in his ears. He had not intended to come back so early, and when he finds the hut once again, its owner crouched atop the thatch roof beside a loose pile of straw and a bow just behind him, his expression tells him that Will had not expected it either.

“Good morning.” Hannibal says, staying well back and tilting his chin up, inexplicably pleased to have caught Will doing something so domestic. “Do you need any help?”

“Filling in some gaps. Stay there.” Wills voice is strained in its forced casualness, and Hannibal stays where he is. The elf takes handfuls of the old dry straw, twisting them up into bundles before forcing them into the thatch with what appears to be little care. 

“Are you afraid that I might be too heavy for it?”

“This stuff is stronger than it looks. I already marked what parts needed work and I’m almost done, just-- just go-- go sit or something, I'll be right there.”

Hannibal does not sit, but he moves to the firepit to greet Winston with a thick bit of meat, and shreds of jerky for the less intelligent dogs. Will probably does not rush, because it takes nearly half on hour for him to make his way down from the roof. He walks right back into his home without acknowledgement, shutting the door, only to come out a few minutes later smelling just slightly of smoke and acrid herbs as he rubs pale lotion between his palms. 

“I didn’t think you’d be back.” he says by way of greeting, staying well out of arm's reach. “Not a lot here to entertain you with.”

“You’re here.” Hannibal grins a bit at the way Wills lips twist, like he’s embarrassed for him and trying not to laugh. “Our conversation was very interesting, actually, if a bit heated. Most of my conversations with strangers consist of casual pleasantries, talk of the war, talk of children and farms and little else of substance. It was a unique experience I found myself eager to repeat.”

“You assumed I would want to?”

“There is very little I feel safe in assuming about you, Will.”

Will looks to Winston, as if somehow the dog would be just as confused by Hannibal as he is, but the mabari is just looking between them, alert and smiling. Giving up on finding support Will just jerks his thumb back towards the hut. “I’m boiling water.” he snaps, pausing before shaking his head to dispel some errant thought. “I mean. If you brought tea. That’s why you came right?”

Hannibal must force himself not to beam, in case his teeth scare away this intriguing, skittish, toothy creature. “It is.” he says. “I brought you a tea you might enjoy, as well as cakes that I can say, with confidence, are objectively delicious.”

Will walks away abruptly but Hannibal can hear his muffled, tired laughter as he gets together mugs and plates for their breakfast. For their second meeting Hannibal has brought a simpler tea along with a stoppered bottle of sugared, reduced milk. “I promise that it is good.” Hannibal says, taking in Will’s uneasy expression when the thick concoction oozes lazily from the mouth of the glass. It sinks to the bottom of the water in their mugs, soon to be followed by pink grounds of rosehip and dried pink petals.

Hannibal sets both cups on the ground to steep as he pulls out the fragrant orange cakes.

“Carrot cake?” Will asks, perking up just slightly at the sight of them, his nose flaring with interest. He looks much like Winston in that moment, who has draped his muscular bulk around Wills chair.

“Probably unlike any you have tried.” He holds out the bundle, the napkin still draped over his hands as he cradles them, safely above the inquisitive dog noses. He feels the feather light touch of Wills fingers through the cloth as he picks the less uniform of the two. “Have you tried it before?”

“Not in a while.” Will lifts it to his nose and inhales it shamelessly, baring his throat as he takes it in like a fine wine. He bites into it and though the growl he lets out it is quiet Hannibal can hear it as though it were right against his own ears. He takes a second bite before he's swallowed the first, before covered his mouth to chew. He stares at the cake ravenously, holding himself back from swallowing it whole. “This is fantastic.” He says finally, as though he could not see Hannibal already preening. “Where did you get it?”

“I made it.” He says which earns him Wills regard for a few moments-- until the elf is right back into the cake, biting smaller this time and chewing slower, savouring it. “It’s an odd mix of things, come of what was easily on-hand. I’ll be selling them at the market when I go back to town, if that’s something you would like to get in on.”

“How exactly-” Will stops himself to swallow, and Hannibal takes up his mug, stirring it with a cassia stick he had brought along. The tea turns opaque and delicately pink. “-did you manage that?”

“I’m friends with the innkeeper.” He turns his own mug now and takes a sip. Other than the large, floating rosehips the tea is perfectly smooth. “There is more to me than my horns. I enjoy cooking. Baking. Tea, wine and books. 

And friendship, wherever I can find it.”

Will scowls then, picking up his tea for sip. Despite himself, is eyes flutter at the unexpected flavour. His cheeks flush, just so, a darker pink than the tea but no less enjoyable for it. “Why are you so determined to make nice with me?” he asks.

Hannibal realizes that he has forgotten to eat his own cake and takes a small bite of it, hiding his teeth behind his hand. He chews it slowly, the moist sponge and thinly grated carrot flavouring the chopped walnuts perfectly. “I want to be your friend, Will.” he says finally, when the tension in his hosts shoulders has relaxed, his own cake half gone.

Will shakes his head despairingly, but he is no longer agitated. “I'm not the friendly type.”

“I had noticed.” He smiles. “Lucky for you that I am.”

Will laughs at that, covering his mouth. The crinkle of his eyes is as lovely as Hannibal remembers it, more so because there is no cruelty there this time. “Yeah,I guess you’re more Halla than Druffallo aren’t you?” 

Hannibal only smiles and dips his head.

Embarrassed again, Will scratches through the scruff of his beard, no longer than when Hannibal had last visited. “This tea is really good. Could still use a strainer but I like this a lot.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It would be better with honey, actually-- just a small spoon of it, but I’m afraid I forgot to pick it up on my way out. Perhaps next time.”

“I have some laying around. Any particular kind?”

Hannibal raises a hand. “I would hate to impose, Will.”

“You’re already imposing, and the tea and cake is what’s balancing it out.” Will grins a bit as he stands, carefully setting his breakfast in his chair. “If honey makes it any better I might actually come out of this liking you.”

“Well if that’s the case, then anything light would be perfect.”

Will retreats to his hut, not shutting the door this time. Hannibal glances only from the corner of his eye, but he can see little of the inside of the elf’s home. It is well lit, from unseen sources, and not too messy or barren. There are tables around, as well as several barrels. Likely food preserves.

Will returns with a small jar of honey that smells like it was made from fireweed bees. It had travelled quite a long way east to find itself in Will’s home, but Hannibal does not ask, only portioning out small amounts into their drinks before stirring again. Will seems to melt at the flavour, giving a contented sigh. “That’s good.” he says, and Hannibal knows that this is meant as a high compliment. “A big gentle qunari that bakes, and is a good conversationalist. I guess you’re pretty unique.”

“I would like to think so.” he smiles behind his cup. “Though even in Par Vollen the people must eat bread, and so there are bakers, and farmers to grow the wheat.”

“Were you a baker, back home?”

He tilts his head. It’s incredibly far off the mark, but probably more to do with ignorance of his culture than a misreading. “Do I seem like one?”

“Well, it would explain your smell at least.”

“I smell like bread?” he has to hide his smile. “Or do I smell sweet, like cakes?”

Will rolls his eyes. “You smell strong. As in, I could smell smoke, hot milk, apples, sugar and oats a good ten seconds before I could even see you. You’d make a terrible spy, and while you're big you don't exactly strike me as military. You couldn’t have been Beresaad you’re entire life, so, yeah, baker it is.”

“It is kind of you to say it,” though Hannibal isn’t sure if Will meant it that way “but I have, in fact, been a Beresaad all my life. I am emissary to the Qun. I have spent my entire adult life either wandering the south or escorting converts back to its borders.”

Will eats the last bite of cake and sits back, wiping wayward crumbs from his beard. “Is that so?”

“Before that, this is what I was trained for.”

“And what do.. What do the Qunari have to gain from that? Surely you’d be more useful up there as..” his hand smove in the air, grasping as though there is a world of possibility between them “..a baker, a chef, a politician, tactician, scholar… Just anything, really. You’re pretentious, but you’re intelligent. Personable. Why would they just..?”

“It is for those reasons that I was sent south.” Hannibal crosses one leg over the other, setting his own food aside. He is almost serene in his pose, to let Will know that this subject is an easy one for him. “I am a friendly face to let people who have never seen us know that we are not a race of animalistic cultists, hellbent on war and destruction. We are a people, as any other, with a unique philosophy, which is grounded in the idea of achieving true equality. Everyone has their place within the Qun, from our priestesses to our farmers. I might have been a wonderful baker, but my place was here, in the South, helping your people.”

Hannibal tilts his head a bit in thought. “I will not pretend my country is perfect, Will, or my people, but a large, strange, wandering baker like myself is the closest they will ever come to making a politician. And I can not help but think that is for the best.”

Will laughs, and Hannibal smiles, and soon their breakfast is finished. He moves to leave before he can overstay Wills patience, but the elf holds up his hand, moving within arms reach. “Are you going to keep doing this?” he asks, brows drawn together, his vallaslin wrinkling. “Coming by to visit, snacks and tea and conversation?”

“If you will continue to allow it.” he says. Will scent is incredibly strong, too, though it isn’t at all like food. Its highly medicinal, his smell, just this side of unpleasant, like walking into an apothecary. The open air helps to disperse it, and the floral scent of tea on his breath softens it further now that he is close. 

“Well, next time.. Try coming later. Life’s hard enough out here without you scaring off anything that might be dumb enough to wander this close to the hunters cabin.” 

There's an implied insult there, but it washes off Hannibal without sticking. He smiles earnestly enough that Will has to turn away from it. “I will do that.” he says. “Next time, Will.”

“Next time.” the hunter agrees, stepping back. He gives a sharp nod. “Hannibal.”

Hannibal lifts a hand goodbye, and Winston escorts him away again. The dog's tail wags madly, and if Hannibal had one he thinks his might have done the same. 

Next time.


End file.
